Grip Me Up Tight Again
by PTBvisiongrrl
Summary: Dean isn't right in the head, since he got back from Hell. He's also not the sharpest tool in the shed, so it takes him a while to figure out the cause and how to fix it. And, of course, the world/God/destiny has to fuck with him once he does figure it out. Can he find a fucked up Winchester happy ending?


**FIC TITLE** : Grip Me Up Tight Again

 **Author** \- PTBvisiongrrl

 **Part-** 1/1- just a one shot, nothing else

 **Date-** 1/26/16

 **Rating** – M/NC-17

 **Pairings/Characters** \- Cas/Dean

 **Word Count-** 1348

 **Genre-** PWP

 **Warnings-** If PWP or M/M will offend you, click back now.

 **Spoilers-** References Castiel's entrance, Season Five finale, and some events in Season Six.

 **Disclaimers-** _I don't own any of these characters, and make absolutely no profit from taking them out to play…so please don't sue me. If I did own them, there would be a lot more shirtless Jensen Ackles and Misha Collins on the show!_

 **Summary-**

Dean isn't right in the head, since he got back from Hell. He's also not the sharpest tool in the shed, so it takes him a while to figure out the cause and how to fix it. And, of course, the world/God/destiny has to fuck with him once he does figure it out. Can he find a fucked up Winchester happy ending?

 **Grip Me Up Tight Again**

Every time that feathered ass-wipe showed up, Dean could feel the skittering need shoot up his spine. Need. Stupid, hard-wired response he could not get rid of. And he tried, Lord, did he try. Pushing away memories of hell, clinging to what life was like before the Pit, Dean dove back into the patented Winchester method of dealing with that which made him uncomfortable- hunting, killing, booze, and sex.

Problem was, hunting and killing didn't feel the same anymore. How could you feel good about hunting and killing monsters, when you knew in your bones that you were now one, too? Booze, well, booze was easy to momentarily forget things, but whatever you worked to forget, it always came back at the bottom of the bottle.

And sex? Fucking didn't fucking work the same way anymore.

Dean had always been a good lay. Had prided himself on that fact. Used to charge good money for that fact, a long time ago. Had used that prowess to feel better about himself with countless diner waitresses and hot bar flies. He might not be the smartest guy, or the best hunter, the smoothest at seduction, but he fucked great.

Being an awesome lay, his partners always came three or four times before he allowed himself that release. By then, that release was beyond awesome. Whatever their kink, he tried to accommodate. He wanted them to want more with him; he liked leaving them wanting more. It wasn't just that satisfied fatigue in his bones when he finally broke, it was a mental high, pride in how wrecked he left his partners.

But since Hell? He was still a good lay. Still played to his partners' kinks. Still gave as many orgasms as they could take. But for him…the satisfaction just wasn't as good, didn't last as long. Dean knew this was his sexual PTSD from his time of torturing and being tortured in Hell. Pain and pleasure lines had been rewritten, lines that were simply not acceptable with mere human partners. Not that he had ever really wanted Alistair that way—he just simply wasn't given a choice. These days, his fifty-fifty gender batting average had slid into the ninety-ten range toward women. He knew women, knew how to play their bodies exquisitely without flashing back to Alistair's blood and pain and fear. Problem was, they just didn't do it for him the way he needed it.

What he needed—what he craved—disgusted him. Hell had fried his pleasure/pain synapses, had taught him how good pain could feel, how pleasurable the aftermath. Hell had taught him to take demon-strength kink, human though he was, and now that he only played with humans, well, he was always left less than satisfied.

So he drank more. Drinking delayed the aching in his bones for the violent, male-on-male sex he had been molded to enjoy. There was just no way anyone on this plane of existence could get him to reach those heights of ecstasy. At least no one that wouldn't like to kill him in the process.

Except, he could tell, Castiel.

Castiel would do it for him in a way no other, not even Alistair, could have. Because along with the other-worldly strength, the desire to make Dean happy (which Dean acknowledged and used for things non-sexual all the time), the "profound bond" they shared…Castiel had rebuilt him from the molecules up. Castiel had bathed in the mysteries of Dean's screwed up psyche, had looked into every dusty corner of his mind, had paged through the sexual escapade erotic memories Dean hid from everyone. And yet…

Castiel never pushed. Never asked. Personal space issues aside—and Dean didn't really think that was purposeful, just Cas still getting used to the dimensions of his vessel—Cas was the most patience partner Dean had ever not fucked.

Until Dean was going to say yes to Michael. Then, then it all changed.

Beaten, bloody, conceding to Castiel's hurt tirade of what he had done for Dean, over and over again without thanks… That was when Dean realized he didn't need sex with Castiel to feel that fiery, satisfied physical rush. Just having Castiel's focus on him, never even laying a sexual hand on Dean, that was what caused that spinal flinch of unresolved want that Dean had never had before, had no idea what to do with.

Dean fucking loved Cas. Dean WANTED Cas. Had to have his hands on him. Needed him so bad that Cas beating the shit out of him in an alley, begging Cas to just end him already, actually thinking Cas might, made him come in his pants.

Once Dean had that straightened out in his head, had figured out what he needed from Cas, if not how to ask for it—Devil Sam had snapped his fingers and Cas was gone. Luci might as well as have reached into Dean's chest and ripped out his heart, all in one go. Everything gone but Dean's miserable, lonely self.

And then everything but Sam was righted and put back on his life's shelf, for all of five minutes. Because Cas left. Again. Went back to heaven, to stay, not coming back. And Dean knew, knew, it was his fault for never asking for more, for never admitting to his need out loud.

Then Dean spent months doing exactly what Sam had made him promise to do, no matter how hollow and unfulfilled inside he was. Dean slid right back into being the great lay, getting Lisa off so good and so often that she was more than willing to put up with his functioning alcoholic ass, even if he could barely manage to get himself off, much less be satisfied with it.

The return of the supernatural to his world was welcome on many levels. He loved Lisa and Ben, in a very human way—that would not fit into the fucked-up mess of his hunting life, the life he couldn't shake, even when he tried.

So he dove back in. Asking Cas to wipe their memories of Dean Winchester clean—that was akin to telling Cas just how much Dean loved him. Which Cas, being Cas and knowing Dean as well as he did, heard as clearly as if Dean had announced it aloud in front of Sam and Bobby and Crowley himself.

As loud as Dean announced it, on his knees and arms bound behind him, later that night in a tasteless motel room, Cas mercilessly fucking his ass with abandon. Dean loved Cas, loved everything about him, including what he did to Dean's body as well as his mind and soul.

Later, Grace-cleansed and settled into scratchy sheets and wrapped around each other naked and warm, Dean said it with the actual words this time. "I love you, Cas."

"I love you, too, Dean. I have from the moment I saw your soul shining in Hell, waiting for me." Cas curled his slighter stature into Dean's lithe, muscled body, wrapping his arms around his hunter. "I'm so thankful that you have finally opened up to me, accepted what I always knew. I want to soothe your hurt, I want to make you smile—"

Dean smiled, smirked really, at this chick-flick moment. He had to fall for the chatty, schmoopy angel, didn't he? Pressing a kiss against Cas's mouth, stilling those pink, slightly chapped lips, Dean tightened his arms as well. "I get it. I was stupid and slow, and fought against what I should have just known. I've never been the smart one, Cas. How about, instead of talking about it, you, uh, grip me up tight again and give me another taste of what you really wanted to do to me when you saved me?"

Castiel, angel of the Lord, placed his hand on Dean's right upper bicep, mimacing the hand-shaped scar he had not been able to eradicate from Dean's rebuilt physical being, and proceeded to demonstrate that he as not as clueless to human activity as he often allowed others to believe.


End file.
